even angels have their wicked schemes
by ninjaextraordinaire
Summary: jackson/lydia. "His lips quirk, and, not for the first time, she wonders if this is what it feels like to make a deal with the devil."


**a/n**: okay, i barely got through the pilot of this show, so i have no idea what their real characterizations are like, and most of the details in this story are probably crazy inaccurate, but i had to write something for this pairing─i already know i'm gonna have a soft spot for them. curse my shipping tendencies, heh. warning; this sucks. judge me. story title comes from _love the way you lie part ii_ by rihanna.

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**even angels have their wicked schemes**

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Lydia's mother always told her that love was about compromise, about giving and taking in equal measure so that both parties would be left feeling satisfied with the outcome.

Ten-year old Lydia with pigtails and pink bows would smile up at her, tell her how that's what she wanted; a good love, pure and simple.

No games, no treachery.

Then she'd run off, play with Barbies or something equally as ignorant, while her mother told her father, _don't worry, Lyddie's gonna be fine_.

Sixteen-year old Lydia with eyeliner and daddy's vodka under her bed thinks,_ your definition of fine is sorely fucked_.

.

His house is spectacular, she decides.

His kitchen is twice the size of her bedroom and he tells her she can leave her backpack in the foyer─the _foyer_! She grins and tells him he has a wonderful home, only for him to roll his eyes and grab an apple from a bowl in the middle of his kitchen's island.

"Yeah, whatever, let's just get this thing over with."

Her expression immediately grows solemn, and she internally curses Mr. Adams to the fiery pits of hell for partnering her up with this incompetent asshat for their term project. She was wrong to even think, for a second, he might not be what everyone says he is.

He notices her shift in mood, and before he can say something, he hears a booming voice yell his name from upstairs. He imperceptibly winces and excuses himself, racing up the stairs as fast as his legs will carry him.

Lydia sighs, partially glad to be left alone, but also wondering why Jackson looked as if he'd seen the grim reaper before leaving. Her mind conjures up three possible scenarios that could result from her partnership with Jackson Whittemore; a) he kills her, b) she kills him, or c) she drops out of high school and moves to Indonesia to avoid having to work with him at all.

She's entertaining the latter when she hears what sounds like glass shattering. Lydia starts, clutching at the island for support, strangely relieved when she sees Jackson coming towards her.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, mostly out of habit, and because he looks a little paler, and if she isn't mistaken, there seems to be red rimmed around his irises that most certainly wasn't there before. She'd ask about that, but he'd surely deny it, and there's no point in arguing because she has 20-20 vision, so.

His eyes narrow into slits, and he takes a big bite of his apple. "The fuck do you care?"

She scowls at him, shutting her book and placing it in her messenger bag. She won't put up with his mannerisms any longer, and if he wants to be rude when she asked a simple question, then he can be rude while he's doing the project all by himself, thank you very much. Before she can do a very dramatic storming out, she hears him sigh.

"Look, it's no secret that you hate me, but you─"

"No, I don't," she interrupts, because frankly, she doesn't.

He irritates the living hell out of her and makes her want to scratch her eyes out, but no, she doesn't _hate_ him.

Lydia arches an eyebrow when Jackson turns to her, something swimming in his cobalt eyes that's far too smug for her to be comfortable with. Yeah, she doesn't hate him, but she doesn't think an admission like that warrants a look like this.

"So...you like me?"

She sighs. "No, I don't."

"That could work," he whispers, and suddenly he's leaning towards her and whoa, when did he get so close and was his face always this perfect?

He kisses her.

She doesn't kiss back.

Instead, her eyes go wide and she pushes firmly against his chest─which is muscular and defined under her hands and _oh god_─until he gets the hint. When he does pull away, he's looking at her like he knows she's torn between slapping him and getting the hell out of there.

She chooses the latter, gathers her things, and leaves, looking more flustered than anyone who doesn't like him should.

.

He texts her that night; _meet me?_

After wondering for a good four minutes about how the hell he got her number, she rolls her eyes, snaps her phone shut before she can even debate replying, and goes back to analyzing ribosomes and mitochondria with a huff. Her mind refuses to cooperate with her and ignores the material she's reading in favor of thinking about boys with big houses and perfect smiles that betray the fact that they're _pure evil_.

Yet, he kissed _her_.

Her fingers type out a message; _why?_

She gets a reply nineteen seconds later; _idk, ur hot._

She rolls her eyes, thinks he's nothing but a pompous asshole, but finds her hands reaching for her coat anyway.

.

He tells her he has what she wants; popularity.

He circles around her, sizing her up in a way that she knows he's not unfamiliar to. She's seen him in the halls, seen how he's gotten people twice his size to succumb to his whim, how every person that's ranked below him in high school's hierarchy shies away from him like he could burn them.

She briefly muses on his proposal, wonders if he actually knows what he's talking about. He's got power, sure, but she's Lydia Martin, which briefly translated, means; she's _nobody_. She's never had a boyfriend, never even kissed anyone up until four hours earlier in his kitchen.

Lydia's not a dumb girl, she knows that reducing yourself to pleasing a guy just so people you won't know in four years can know you now isn't the smartest idea, but just the thought of walking down the halls and being recognized as _someone_─even if it is St. Douchebag's girlfriend─sounds so appealing that her hand extends to meet his of its own accord.

His lips quirk and, not for the first time, she wonders if this is what it feels to make a deal with the devil.

.

As it turns out, Jackson is even more unpleasant when you're his girlfriend.

The second night of their "relationship", he takes her phone, scrolls through her contacts, and erases every single number with a male's name accompanying it. Not to mention the fact that he openly insults her as he pleases, judging every aspect of her persona from her weight to her handwriting.

She tries to tell him that how she looks in her blue dress and whether or not he can read the essays she turns in isn't any of his damn business, but once the words are out, his jaw clenches and he's out the door. The next day, he ignores her, and in turn, everyone ignores her.

It's then that the mental _click_ takes place.

Keeping Jackson happy equals keeping the popularity.

Before she'd sold her soul to him, she might've laughed, flipped her hair, and walked away without so much as a backward glance. Would've told him _no way in hell_ and probably threatened to shove a yard stick up his ass or something of equal measure.

Things are different now.

She's so used to the fleeting looks from boys that tell her they know of her existence, the sideglances from girls when Jackson pecks her lips in the halls that makes it obvious they wish they were in her place─_ha, no you don't sweetie_─that she doesn't really know how to cooperate as she walks into her homeroom and no one spares her a glance, not even as the heels Jackson bought her clack against the tile.

After class, she approaches him with a pout, apologizes for lashing out, and vows to do whatever it takes to keep him smiling.

.

It's Saturday night and they've been "dating" for two months.

Everyone thinks they're the epitome of perfection, with their long kisses and mellifluous nothings.

Little do they know what goes on behind closed doors, where no one can hear him calling her a worthless, selfish bitch, and no one can see her fists pummeling against his chest until her knuckles are bright red. No one can see them tear each other down, and no one can know how twisted it is when they return to the facade the next morning with a lingering kiss at breakfast.

They wouldn't understand.

They'd call her mean names that degraded the reputation she's built and that can't happen, _nonono_, because then Jackson wouldn't want her, and Jackson _needs_ to want her, needs to be happy with how she's doing because she's doing it all for him, _doesn't he know that_?

It's someone's party, she can't remember who, but all she knows is that everyone remembers her, and she dances with her boyfriend, smile stretched wide.

Tonight though, the number of times he's left her side to go take more shots or do more keg-stands has outnumbered any other party they've attended.

On the eighth time, she huffs out a breath and goes searching for him, eyebrows creasing when she finds him leaned back in a corner, eyes drooping halfway shut. She walks up to him, pats him on the face firmly.

"Jackson? Hey, are you alright?"

She's never seen him this out of it, and she absentmindedly wonders if it has something to do with the fact that she heard glass shattering upstairs when she went over to his house earlier that night. If he was actually a decent human being, and she wasn't legitimately scared that he'd beat the shit out of her, she'd ask him about his family.

But he's not, and she is, so she keeps her mouth shut.

He squirms away from her. "Leave, Lydia. Stop suffocating me," he slurs. She takes his hand, only to have him pull away from her abruptly. "You're not my real girlfriend, member? Stop acting like you care, you're off the hook for tonight."

She turns and fixes him with a cold, hard stare. "We need to get you home, _now_."

"God, why am I even _with_ you?"

Lydia can practically hear the proverbial record scratch that comes before the dreaded silence that means everyone around them is staring; eyes wide in anticipation of the it couple's impending brawl. Her hand clenches into a fist at her side, and she does the only thing she knows to do.

She lowers her head and begins to cry. Jackson immediately sobers up and steps forward, taking her in his arms and running his fingers through her hair, says _I'm sorry, baby_ and _you know I didn't mean that_, just loud enough for it to reach the onlookers' ears as well.

She nods into his chest, wills her arms to wrap around him, and presses her lips into his neck.

The record starts up, smoothly this time, and everyone is once again attending to their own business. She looks up, sees what she can only describe as pride in his eyes, and takes his hand, leading him away from the party and towards his car.

She hears whispers flying about as they exit through the door, knows that on Monday girls will point at her and say _she's such a slut, she and Jackson totally fucked on Saturday_ with a begrudging mixture of respect and envy while the male student body will clap Jackson on the back and talk about him like he's the _man._

All will be right with the world.

.

Lydia loses her virginity to Jackson Whittemore four months after he calls her a worthless whore─the first time.

She doesn't want to, not really─she'll admit, he's probably the most attractive person she's ever laid eyes on, but strong jawlines and pretty blue eyes can only get you so far, after all─and she pulls away when he presses his lips to the valley between her breasts.

"Fine, you can let yourself out," he says, and the way he says it is what makes her do a double-take. He doesn't sound angry, or resentful, or any of the adjectives that might actually make sense coming from him. If anything, he sounds resigned, this bitter sixteen-year old with issues that she'll never admit to caring for.

She sighs, directs his face back to hers, and kisses him. He doesn't immediately reciprocate, and her eyebrows crease. He tentatively presses his lips to hers, slowly sliding her jacket from her shoulders. He pulls away, and she's truly baffled when she sees the silent question in his eyes.

As an answer, she attacks his mouth again, and this time, Jackson hoists her up only to set her back onto his pillows gently. He takes his shirt off and she only gets to marvel at his chiseled torso for a couple of seconds before his lips are on hers once more. His thumbs skim above the waistline of her jeans as his tongue runs across her lower lip. She nods, parting her lips and her legs, granting him entrance into both her mouth and her body.

She feels him smile into her skin and she indulges in the small mercy of deluding herself into believing he loves her.

.

He breaks up with her not too long after fucking her.

The naive part of her brain likes to think that the two incidents don't correlate with one another, and the part of her brain that Jackson dominated, twisted and turned until all she could see were her flaws and his strengths tells her to face the truth─he's done with her.

It'd be kind of poetic, except that ship sailed a long time ago.

"Why?"

She's kind of─scratch that, _extremely_ proud of herself when her voice doesn't waver. It gives her hope.

He sighs. "Frankly, you're becoming a bit of a bore," he explains, leaning back onto his couch leisurely, seemingly at ease with knowing that his words are gnawing at her insides and making her want to cave in on herself. "And besides, you're popular now. People know your name; you got what you wanted."

Yeah, she got what she wanted─but at what price? At the price of her self-esteem? Her virginity? Every ounce of self-reliance she used to cling onto so desperately?

She can't really say it was worth it.

She wants to scream, wants to take his lacrosse stick from the corner of his room and pummel him until she leaves him as black and blue as he's left her, wants to beg and plead and _baby, please don't do this, I gave you everything_, but she doesn't.

She keeps her head high, and laughs, walking out and taking what remains of her dignity with her.

She gets the pleasure of seeing confusion trace his every feature, and he doesn't get the pleasure of seeing her tears fall.

It's a _win-win_, really.

.

Days pass, then weeks, then months.

Girls still write about her on the bathroom stalls and boys still want to fuck her.

Jackson doesn't call.

.

It's Wednesday night, and a crisp air swats at her bare arms as she takes a drag from her cigarette, moving her fingers through the smoke billowing around her face. She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket and digs it out.

_Jackson_.

He calls her over and, against her better judgement, she sprints the necessary twenty-six minutes to his house. He opens the door, and he's not wearing a shirt. Lydia trains her eyes to remain on his face, thinks about how much she wants to slap that stupid smirk right off his face.

"Miss me already?"

She doesn't bother to remind him that _he's_ the one who called _her_, just crosses her arms over her chest and looks at him, all wrath and no forgiveness.

"Not even a little bit."

They both know she's lying.

"That could work."

He's said those words before and she knows what's coming next, steels herself to lose the independence she lost, won back, but never really knew how to use.

He kisses her.

She kisses back this time.

Only because he still tastes like peppermint and destruction.

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**reviews are love.**


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